


hardly golden (always gold)

by kamisado



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Drug Addiction, Gen, Major S2 Spoilers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide Attempt, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4597491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamisado/pseuds/kamisado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stares at his reflection in the halogen light of the bathroom, fingers gripping the edge of the basin so tightly his knuckles turn white. Bruises are beginning to blossom across his face, purple and blue and bloody. Glassy, dark eyes stare back at him, lost and confused, betraying whatever confidence he's trying to project. There’s a belt in his hand. He is all alone in this world, no matter what the team says.</p><p>[a collection of missing scenes from Reid's s2 story arc]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fracture

**Author's Note:**

> major spoilers for the fisher king parts 1+2 and elephant's memory; slight spoilers for demons

“It’s a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realise what’s changed, is you.” - Eric Roth 

Sometimes, Reid likes to think of his mind like a porcelain urn. Well-kept and valuable; filled to the brim with knowledge, of the useful but really quite specialised variety. He likes the analogy, not just for the idea that there's only a finite amount of things he can really _know_ before the cup spilleth over after all, but how he can almost visualise the damage that's being done after all these cases.

A tiny spiderweb of surface cracks spreads its way across the delicate design. _Crazing_ , his mind supplies, the irony not lost on him at all. Eventually these cracks will get deeper and the urn will shatter into a million pieces, and all the precious statistics and secrets he's been keeping safe inside will spill out, lost forever. He knows not to press on these cracks, not to tempt fate, and instead just pretend they're not there, pretend nothing's wrong.

This UnSub had made the job unbearably personal, in a way that none of them had anticipated. A head in a box, that's a message all right, but the scale and complexity of the book cipher, the personal touches - it angered him how intimately the UnSub could see into their lives. These were private matters, Gideon's cabin, Elle and Morgan's holiday, Reid's mother, no business to each other, never mind some deluded child abductor.

He stares down the Fisher King unarmed and tries to talk him down, but really, if he'd actually thought about the implications in all this, he'd know how it ends. Sir Percival asks the wrong question and the Grail is lost forever. A failure dictated by history, passed on through the years.

But this isn't some folk tale, this is real life, and nearly getting his legs blown off in the process wasn't exactly a foregone conclusion. He's not Sir Percival, Knight of the Round Table, who can fix crippling sickness with a single question. He's Doctor Spencer Reid of the FBI, still trying to find his feet in all this, pushing down the feeling that it's all his fault to begin with. There's a girl in this building who's been caught up in someone else's delusion for years and a dear friend lying on a surgical table with her chest splayed open to the world. All because he couldn't keep his rambling mouth shut.

That being said, he really tries to save this UnSub. Garner's not evil, he's just sick, that's all. But a bomb is a bomb is a bomb and the ringing in Reid's blown-out eardrums drowns out all sense. _Some people can't be saved_ , he tells himself, but it doesn't make it any more okay.

*

 _Can you forgive yourself?_ He can hear his own words circling in his brain, even after they find Rebecca, even after the long evening's over. At approximately 35,000 feet in the air, he takes his mother's hand, painfully aware of how much she hates flying, painfully aware that even this is of little comfort. He reads her Chaucer's _A Knight's Tale_ , the word on his lips familiar to him from childhood. She looks disinterested, concerned. Her son’s a government employee and that makes him the enemy. Reid knows that deep down she could still probably analyse the poem six ways to Sunday, meds or no meds.

But he's no shining knight and when he waves goodbye to her at Bennington Sanatorium he still doesn't know if he can answer his own question. He'll still write every day, sure, with a little more personal detail redaction, but whether he makes good on any promises to visit more often remains to be seen. This case has opened up old scars, ones he didn't want the team to see. He's not ashamed, but he's angry and the worse part about it is that he knows it's completely misplaced. He can't blame his mother for this, but he can't blame Garner either, and all that leaves is himself.

The sanatorium makes his skin crawl and as soon as his mother's out of sight, he turns and leaves as quickly as he can. _This could be you someday_ , his brain unfailingly supplies as he strides out of the high wrought-iron gates, not looking back. The thought twists in his stomach, as statistics about genetic factors in paranoid schizophrenia involuntarily flood his mind.

*

It's a balmy evening in late September and dusk is slowly closing in around him, but he keeps walking, refusing to look at the towering building behind him. The air is beginning to feel clammy, but he walks straight past his car, staring ahead at the horizon. He doesn't know where he's going but he's sure he'll know where to stop. The team probably won't expect him back until the morning, and the plane will wait, so a couple of hours in his old haunts won't hurt anyone. He remembers this neighbourhood like the back of his hand. Not just the streets and intersections because with an eidetic memory and an affinity for maps he knows his way around virtually anywhere, but this place has the additional sucker-punch of bad memories.

There's the hospital where he found out he was violently allergic to carbenicillin. Who knew he was so prone to life-threatening experiences, even as a child? There's the high school, with its full gamut of unpleasant experiences lurking behind the surface. He can't bear to look - a lot has changed in a decade and a bit, but it still makes his stomach turn. He remembers being physically sick some mornings with fear of approaching those ugly brick walls, and that feeling won't just go away with a lick of paint. There's the football field, the goalposts protruding into the sky, silhouetted against streaks of pink and orange. Reid tears his eyes away, focuses them firmly on the ground, pushing down the memories and nausea with it. It was a clear night back then too; the sunset was so beautiful. But you tend not to notice these things when you're crying your eyes out.  
  
Lips pressed firmly into a thin line, Reid realises he's reached his destination. A quaint suburban house sits mutely in front of him. Lights on inside, beige family car parked out front. A typical nuclear family, he profiles. Toys in the garden suggest three children, two female, one male going by the array in front of him, all around elementary school age. White picket fence needs a lick of paint, the guttering around the roof is coming loose; tiny suggestions here and there that both parents work; he predicts there's another car in the garage. Just an ordinary family.

He wonders how he would have profiled it when he lived there.

It would be a lot livelier now, filled with the voices of happy children, parents calling that dinner's ready, laughter at animated movies on the television. Not like when he was a kid. Growing up, he remembers the silence. Every creak of the floorboards, every sneeze from the dust felt like it reverberated around the house, louder than gunfire. Nearly every room was filled with books and papers, of all topics and in all states of array. A veritable goldmine. _More like a death-trap_ , he thinks to himself, shoving his hands into his pockets. He remembers dodging towers of toppling books, tripping over stacks lying on the stairs haphazardly, the dust that seemed to settle everywhere, tickling his throat, coating his lungs. He loved books, but the grime and neglect that permeated the house seemed to cling to him, his hands never feeling quite clean.

The outside light flares into life, shaking Reid from his thoughts. It wasn't his place to be standing outside some unknown family's house. It wasn't his home any more, even if it had been for eighteen years. There's no sense of yearning though, no desire to see inside. This place had been a haven, but now it was just a house. With a slow sense of disappointment beginning to seep into his bones, he realises that whatever closure he had unconsciously sought by coming here was just a lesson in futility.

He sleeps little that night.


	2. fissure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> major spoilers for sex, birth, death

_"Is there no way out of the mind?" - Sylvia Plath_

It wasn't supposed to end like this. He was supposed to be perched on a barstool next to Garcia, hands wrapped around a cool beer, watching her make flirty eyes at the bartender. He was supposed to listen to her complaining about the factual inaccuracies of computer-speak in TV cop shows, laughing along because ‘just cause it's Linux doesn't mean it's completely ground-breaking’, whatever that's supposed to mean. He was supposed to have a good night, smiling until his face hurt, followed by a well-needed night's sleep.

Instead, he's holding Nathan Harris's slashed wrists closed, screaming at Garcia to tourniquet them shut with her scarf, screaming for a medic like he's in a war zone. It's as if his brain has shut off; he's shouting for help but doesn't see the paramedics bursting in, all he knows is that there's blood spilling out from between his fingers and he needs to make it stay in.

Reid hasn't had to deal with this before. The victims come to him already dead, blood dried dark in their veins. Even when they're not too late, someone else always springs into action, someone who actually knows what they're doing, ready to save the day. This is different; he can feel Nathan's pulse under his hands, weak and thready and fading fast, and oh how he wishes he were a real medical doctor, not just a kid with some PhDs and a first aid qualification. The EMTs have to physically pull him away, heart thumping in his ears too loudly to hear, and all he can do is stare pathetically as they wind white bandages around Nathan's pale little wrists, blood soaking through the gauze.

Distantly, he can hear Garcia crying, along with the prostitute, who's still clutching his card. A suicide note, with Reid’s own name printed there in clean white type. Eyes fixed, mind unthinking, he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and begins to rub his hands clean. It's instinctive, almost automatic, but the blood's beginning to dry. He's still rubbing his hands on the blood-stained rag as he's gently guided outside. It's beginning to cake around his knuckles and nail beds, and he scrubs harder, fearing he'll never get it off.

 _This is all your fault,_ his mind supplies spitefully. _This is all on you._ He knows that's not a helpful line of thought at a time like this but he can't quite bring himself to say it's not the truth either. Nathan had sought Reid out, had seen enough in common to view the agent as an ally and a lifeline, not a threat. And Reid had seen so much of himself reflected in this kid, not just in the scared eyes and pale, pinched face but in the distrust of his own movements, the constant second-guessing of every thought. He had tried explaining it to Morgan but daren't let on just how much he felt like this.

“I know what it's like to be afraid of your own mind,” he says, not making eye contact, and it feels infinitely more personal to be admitting this than he thought. He hopes Morgan understands, but it's a difficult feeling to articulate, and he doesn't want to make them worry about him, at least any more than they already do. Reid knows there's a huge chasm between a genetic risk of paranoid schizophrenia and physical signs of homicidal ideation but this kid is sick, just sick that's all.

Reid had tried to tell himself this after they find the next victim. It's late and there's dark blood staining her white dress, pooling beneath her. She’s growing colder by the minute, but she’s already gone. At a glance they can tell that this is a break from the pattern, no hair cut from the body, no message carved into her flesh. Reid forces himself to focus on the case, and not think about Nathan doing this. But all roads point to this scared teenager now and they know they have to bring him in.

“The only way to save people’s lives in the future is to kill myself,” Nathan tells him when they find him. Reid doesn't know what to say to that, can’t even look Nathan in the eye. Because on one hand it's the truth – left untreated the odds of Nathan becoming a murderer are almost certain. But they don't know for sure he's acted on those impulses yet, and it makes Reid's stomach drop to hear this kid talking like that.

He wants to tell Nathan that it will all be okay; just a brief spell in hospital and all of this will go away. He tries not to think about what happens if he’s wrong, if that short stay becomes long term becomes permanent. He tries not to think about Bennington, and if there’s ever gonna be a day he’ll go in and not come out. He doesn’t want to think about how he’ll never let himself deteriorate that far, but he knows that line of thought well and it leads nowhere good.

 _He might have killed someone,_ he’d reminded himself bitterly, snapping back to reality in a sickening instant. _We’re nothing alike._ His identification with Nathan was beginning to blur his judgement, even he could tell.

And now caked with Nathan's blood, Gideon tells him: “He was sick, he needed saving.” _Well that's all well and good,_ Reid thinks, once the fog of his mind clears a little. _But who’s gonna save them?_ He knows he should be happy for saving Nathan's life but all Reid can think about are the countless other women that could end up being carved up just because of his own damn saviour complex. _And who’s gonna save me when this job gets too much?_ He knows that Gideon is only trying to help but it's cold comfort when your moral compass is spinning like a wheel of fortune.

Reid watches Nathan’s blood flow down the plughole in the basin of his apartment, lathering his hands over and over and over until they begin to crack. The sun is coming up, but he knows the team will let this one slide if he doesn’t make it into work today. Exhaustion is beginning to seep through his body as he blearily finds his way to the bedroom, stripping off the bloody clothes into a sad heap on the floor, lying alongside everything else he doesn’t have the energy to deal with. It’s funny how that pile grows bigger by the case.

For weeks afterwards his dreams are filled with all the people he couldn’t save, both in the past and in the future. Warm blood spilling into his hands from his own slashed wrists. They stare at him from beyond the veil helplessly, eyes fixed and glassy.

He would give anything to make it stop.


	3. shatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> major spoilers for the big game and revelations

_“I have an habitual feeling of my real life having passed, and that I am leading a posthumous existence.” - John Keats_

Reid knew it was a stupid idea to split up. He let his emotions get ahead of him once again, and he knows it probably won’t be the last time either. Hindsight is 20/20 after all, but in the moment you’ve got to follow your gut, and if that’s wrong, well.

In truth, at the time all he could think about was JJ and how he’d never forgive himself if she got hurt. Self-preservation always took a backseat in Reid’s mind in situations like this. He remembers hearing the gunshots from the barn, faint growling from the dogs and just praying that she’d managed to take a couple out before they’d pounced. In that respect, it was almost a comfort that the UnSub had attacked him because that meant that he hadn't got to her. Almost.

He remembers in the cold little shack in rural Georgia how that was keeping him going, the fact that this was happening to him and not anyone else in the team. The first thing he notices when he comes to is the stench of burning fish livers. It makes him retch with every breath at first and he swears he’ll never get used to it, but it's funny what you learn to cope with. The profile tells him that this guy can't be talked down, or at least Raphael and Charles can't be talked down, but it doesn't stop him from trying. And it doesn't stop him from working either, passing on a coded message on to the BAU through the webcams pointed at him. He's been taken hostage before, so thinking on his feet is second nature by this point.

The torture is new though. This is different. _Maybe this is the one you don't get away from,_ he thinks, his mind betraying him as burning wood strikes his naked foot once again. _Maybe this is the one where they’re too late._ He tries to compartmentalise, push the pain down into a dark corner of his mind like everything else he doesn't want to remember. In a weird sick way it almost works. But then comes the Russian roulette and then he's sure he's about to die. _They'll remember me favourably_ , he thinks absently, _and they’ll find me eventually._ Small mercies. _But what will they tell Mo-_ flashes across his mind, unbidden, as that trigger’s squeezed. The click of the gun is loud in the still air and he's crying openly, tears spilling freely down his cheeks.

But, in a way, the Dilaudid is the worst torture of all. _It can only take one traumatic event to tip you over into fully blown psychosis,_ Reid’s mind unhelpfully supplies, and he forces himself to stay calm, to keep his faith in the team sure. The Russian roulette messes with his head, but at least he has some sort of control over what he's thinking. He knows when he’s doped up to the eyes he can't control his thoughts, and that's what scares him most. The drugs tear memories from the depths of his mind, ones he'd rather keep hidden, ones he never even knew he had, and lay them bare in full Technicolour detail. He resists Tobias the first two times, protesting and pleading, terrified at the idea that this drug is going to send him careening down into the rabbit hole of his mind and he’ll never resurface.

Tobias is only trying to help him, Reid knows that. He can see only good intentions in the sick man’s eyes, good intentions and pity, and the worst thing about it is that it really does help. After the second dose, it's all Reid can think of during the beatings, even during the Russian roulette. Even his thoughts about the team coming to save him become eclipsed by the desire to feel warm and weightless and free from this hell once more. By the third dose, his objections are almost a formality as he pleads with his eyes for Tobias to make the pain go away.

Out in the churchyard is when he feels the ache the most. The cold bites right down to his bones, the mud seeping into his knees, icy air catching in the back of his throat. He imagines being forced into the grave, dirt pressing down on him, no energy to fight back any more. The dirt choking him as he struggles to breathe. _I can't let that happen_ , he thinks, as his grip on the shovel slips, firing splinters into his already bloody hands. The Dilaudid makes him feel warm inside, like bright summer sunshine and nostalgic memories. He wants to feel that joy one more time, just once more to make the chill go away. _That's hypothermia you're feeling,_ the more rational part of his mind supplies, _the drug isn't going to make that any better._ He can barely lift the shovel, never mind move more dirt, and he knows he's coming down hard and fast. His hands shake from the tremors, cold sweat on his brow. The back of his head throbs from where he struck the floor, double vision slowly coming into play from the inevitable concussion. Part of his mind, but mostly just his aching ribcage, screams at him not to overdo it and unintentionally stop his own goddamn heart again. There's being able to take a beating, and then there's lying clinically dead in a damn shed in February.

But when Raphael is distracted, Reid shoots straight and sure into this bastard's heart. He can see the lights in the distance, torchlight from the team, but there's a sneaking suspicion in the back of his mind that it's all in his head, just like the lights he saw when he started fitting on the cabin floor. It's a terrible thing not being able to trust what's in front of your eyes, and he knows it. He clambers over to Tobias, knocking the knife from his limp fingers, flusters through an apology that will never be enough. There's no way of saving Tobias without saving Raphael and Charles too, Reid of all people knows that, but that doesn't stop him from desperately longing to.

And then it's all over. The team descends on him and that means he’s alright, doesn't it? Even Hotch hugs him, and he is so grateful for that man, the non-Narcissist he is. JJ is next, on the brink of tears and oh how he's glad it wasn't her in that cabin, for all that happened to him, he's still glad it wasn't her. But touching reunion aside, there’s an icy coldness in his bones screaming at him, and he knows deep down it’s not just hypothermia. It's more like a promise that he’ll feel back to normal if he's as high as a kite. It doesn't make sense, he knows that, but very little else does right now and he finds himself taking the Dilaudid bottles from Tobias’s rapidly cooling corpse.

Reid refuses the EMTs on scene at first but he doesn't want to draw further attention to himself, not to mention to the track marks snaking up the inside of his right arm. Plus, he can barely stand, and the fact that he can't force his eyes to settle on anything at all tells him this concussion is serious. He asks the team not to ride with him in the ambulance, as politely as he can muster, and to his surprise they just let him. Morgan looked like he was about to say something, but any protest died on his lips as he promised that they'd see him in the hospital. Reid supposes that they were just relieved to have him back alive. _And if that's the baseline for okay, then I guess I'm really screwed,_ he thinks bitterly.

“Please don't tell them about this,” he pleads hoarsely with the paramedic as he rolls his sleeve back up. The young woman tending to his wounds looks at him concernedly, eyes narrowing at the stark puncture wounds, but nods nonetheless. “It's Dilaudid.” He doesn't go into detail – he knows how ridiculous it sounds, even to him. But it's the truth, and Reid knows that without this he wouldn't ever have touched drugs, the potential cost to his mind far too severe. It's then that he notices she's been prepping a syringe of clear liquid. She holds it for a second, almost waiting for Reid to answer and he instinctively shrinks away. As much as that would allay the withdrawal, there's a part of him that's lucid enough to know that it's not gonna help in the long run. His mind scrambles for the right words, but it's hard when even consciousness feels like a struggle.

In truth, he hadn't particularly thought about coming off the Dilaudid at the time, he just assumed it would be over when he was free from Tobias. But now as he racks his brain for information on hydromorphone addiction, it's as if a beacon lights up in his mind, telling him that the withdrawal period for this drug is intense, far more intense than the likes of heroin or morphine alone. _At least it's short-lived,_ he thinks hopefully, but he knows full well he would shoot up again right now if he could, and it's only been two hours at most since the last time. The tremors in his hands won't stop and his forearm is beginning to itch uncontrollably. He can see it in the paramedic’s hardened eyes that she doesn't think he can kick it. _She doesn't know me,_ he thinks angrily, refusing to look at her. _I've been through a lot; this is just one more notch on the bedpost of ongoing trauma._

By the time Reid reaches the hospital though, the desire to shoot up again has erupted into full-blown craving. The bottles lie heavy in his pockets and he fights the urge to touch them, to draw attention to them. The first aim is to get out of here as soon as possible. He knows that an overnight stay is inevitable - he's dehydrated, concussed to hell and is only alive because the UnS- _Tobias_ had the good grace to use to use CPR. But it's late already and Reid reckons that by tomorrow he could be back in his apartment in DC. He’s always hated hospitals, the cloying smell of antiseptic barely covering the stench of bodily fluids. But it's the lack of autonomy which bothers him most, the way he can't do _anything_ without permission, and he’d always hated not being in control. It's an uncomfortable reminder of Bennington Sanatorium too, and the idea that someday he might have to stay somewhere like that indefinitely makes his stomach twist nauseatingly.

But he knows that there are more pressing matters at hand: he can’t keep the team away forever. The puncture wounds in his arms have been swabbed with antiseptic cream and bandaged tight but the track marks extend right up his arms, the dark veins stark against his pale skin. There's only so much you can hide in a hospital gown. He knows it’s not his fault but at the same time these guys will take one look at him and see that there's something wrong with him beyond the expected.

He pulls the blankets up to his neck as he hears the doors open, even the smallest movement sending aching pain right up to his shoulders. He knows they'll only let two in at a time so of course it's Penelope and Morgan that are first through the doors. Reid's somewhat relieved it's not Hotch and JJ. Hotch would take one look at him and probably ban him from active service for the next decade.

Penelope bursts in first, and he can tell she's probably on strict orders not to wrap him up into a big bear hug and squeeze him to within an inch of his life, so instead she settles for bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Morgan's next, scouring Reid's face for any sign of distress. Reid knows that if there's gonna be anyone who figures out what's wrong it's gonna be Morgan, so he smiles back wanly, pretending that the non-existent morphine he'd refused ever since he'd been found was coursing through his veins.

“How’re you doin’, kid?” he asked, his voiced laced with concern, and not the suspicion Reid was expecting. He wants to say “honestly, I’m doing pretty badly right now”, he wants to tell Morgan everything, sickening withdrawal and all, but he settles for a slightly unsteady non-committal “I’ll be alright”. This clearly doesn't hit the mark in terms of being convincing so he needs to up his game.

“They're gonna let you out as early as tomorrow.” As expected, but Morgan doesn't sound too happy about this. There's a pregnant pause, and Morgan’s expression shifts from suspicious to sympathetic. “You look pretty bad, kid.” And as much as that doesn't tell Reid anything he doesn't know already, it's still a bit of a kick in the teeth to hear it from Morgan. _He's definitely going to find out. And all hell is gonna break loose._ For the rest of the visit, he continues to play the ‘I'm high on morphine’ card and to some extent, it works, the concussion dazing him enough that they believe it.

The trouble really starts when he gets back to DC.

It’s surprisingly easy to get a syringe, Reid finds. Turns out there are lots of reasons that someone would need one and honestly, he’d even surprised himself with just how well he could lie to someone’s face like that. He turns it over and over in his hands, that little plastic package, wondering what to do. He's been home now for three hours, but he hasn't quite mustered up the courage to shoot up by himself. Morgan had driven him from the airport to his apartment and loitered in the doorway expectantly. Reid could tell that Morgan had probably wanted to get him settled in, but the cold ache in his bones had told him that he wanted to be left alone. He hopes they’ll understand.

He stares at his reflection in the halogen light of the bathroom, fingers gripping the edge of the basin so tightly his knuckles turn white. Bruises are beginning to blossom across his face, purple and blue and bloody. Glassy, dark eyes stare back at him, lost and confused, betraying whatever confidence he's trying to project. There’s a belt in his hand. He is all alone in this world, no matter what the team says.

As the needle pierces his bruised skin, all he can think of is what a failure he's become, how _disappointed_ everyone will be when they find out.

He ought to have known that the high wouldn't be the same. Textbook narcotic addiction. He doesn’t feel warm or happy this time, just nauseous and empty, like his entire body had been hollowed out. The disappointment crushes his chest and he can't stop the tears of frustration which spill ferociously from his cheeks. The syringe is sitting on the edge of the basin and the next thing he knows is that there's broken glass in the sink and broken glass in his hand and he's bleeding.

In a few hours he knows he will try again.


	4. gather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> major spoilers for the boogeyman, fear and loathing, and distress; minor spoilers for instincts.

_“But when a dream night after night is brought_

_Throughout a week, and such weeks few or many_

_Recur each year for several years, can any_

_Discern that dream from real life in aught?”_

_\- James Thomson_

In little over two weeks Reid's gotten good enough at deception to go back to work. The puncture wounds in his forearms and the dark track marks snaking upwards remain hidden under long sleeves. He's taken to injecting in other places too, mainly in his legs, where he knows he can hide it better. He knows there are some things he can't hide though. There's a persistent tremor in his hands that he can't seem to bring under control, which only gets worse as the day goes by. And the fact that he seems to be averaging about three hours of sleep a night, well that's a new low, even for him.

It's not the usual dreams any more. Ever since he can remember he's had bad dreams, of both the ‘paralysed with fear’ and the ‘bolt upright and screaming’ varieties but this is different. In those dreams, he’s plagued with visions of children he couldn't save but in these he can't seem to save anyone. He sees the team in the cabin in Georgia, each one in turn.

Hotch tied to the chair, taking a beating, burning wood striking his feet (he tries to keep a brave face but when he does cry out it’s a punch to the gut).

JJ crying through the Russian roulette, cold steel pressed between her eyes (in some dreams the gun doesn't fire but in some it does and all he can do is watch paralysed as she splatters the wall behind her).

Gideon picking a person to die out of all those innocents (and in these dreams Gideon is much stronger than him so he never chooses and it’s up to Reid's imagination to choose what fate befalls him as a result).

Morgan lying on the floor convulsing, not breathing, eyes rolling back in his head (sometimes the CPR saves him but most of the time it doesn't, and this is one of the worst parts because Reid knows all too well that this could happen for real.)

Elle being beaten, over and over, bones breaking under bruised knuckles but in this incarnation she's already dead, her chest splayed open, spilling blood into the dirt floor (this isn't the UnSub’s fault, this is all on him, she took a bullet and it was his own goddamn fault).

Penelope digging her own grave, face streaked with mud and tear tracks (and every time she's buried alive Reid can feel the dirt pressing down on him, crushing his chest and filling his throat, choking him until he wakes up in a cold sweat and sobbing).

(He doesn't dream of Prentiss and maybe he should be glad because if he keeps her at a distance she won't get hurt too).

The drugs never make an appearance in the dreams though – nothing to make the pain go away. He supposes that's because he thinks the drugs help, at least subconsciously. It's a textbook case of PTSD and he doesn't he know it.

But he still runs rings round the therapist, and is cleared for work on his first attempt.

Westchester should be a cut-and-dry case for them, if ever they had one. Or at least Reid thinks it should be, but in truth he doesn’t pull his weight as much as he ought to have done; aside from the odd moment of inspired deduction, he shrinks into the background. And on the flight home, it's Morgan asking _him_ if he’s okay and not the other way round. Reid knows this has been a tough case for Morgan, and he also knows he should have been there for him instead of considering shooting up in a police station bathroom.

Instinctively, he's snippy and defensive, and at any other time he'd probably feel bad about it. “Thanks for broadcasting it,” he retorts, trying to ignore the way Morgan's face sinks like a stone. He knows the team is worried about him, and quite frankly it's with good reason, but he hates the way they mollycoddle him sometimes. Alone is how he's dealt with things all his life, and alone is how he's going to deal with them now.

But then without warning the words come spilling out. “It's the crime scene photos,” he mumbles, and any attempt at bravado seeps away by the second. He figures maybe if he tells Morgan this he can work his way up to mentioning the drugs. He doesn't want to think about the idea that Morgan already _knows._

“…and I know what they were _feeling_ , like, right before…” They felt like victims, like they weren't gonna get away, like this was it, the end. And they were right, all those poor girls and all the girls before them and all those sure to follow. Reid feels like at least if Charles or Raphael had finished him off then he'd only have to feel like that once, but now every time he sees a picture of a limp lifeless body, the fear squeezes his chest so tightly he can hardly breathe.

And as much as Morgan, with all his good intentions, insists that this is empathy, Reid knows that it goes much deeper than that. Because he knows empathy and he knows he can empathise with these people behind the security of facts and statistics. This isn't the same, this is over-identification with the victim, and Reid can't stop himself thinking of Nathan Harris and Tobias Hankel and all the scared kids out there who grew up to be serial killers. Or their victims.

“Let it make you a better profiler. A better person.” Reid's attention is captured by the last statement. “A better person,” he mutters back, almost to himself. God knows he needs to think about that right now, with the Dilaudid bottles in his satchel, a dealer on speed dial and a syringe waiting for him at home. If ever he needed a sign to cut back on the drugs, it was now and this was it.

But by the next case, he knows he’s spiralling out of control. A deep-seated apathy towards the job is beginning to set in; he can barely muster the ability to turn up at all, never mind on time. He’s stopped making excuses but they don’t ask any more, and that’s good enough for Reid.

Not to mention hiding track marks in long sleeves is just about manageable in Quantico. In the humid heat of Houston, Texas he’s drenched in sweat almost straight off the plane. He knew this would be hard anyway because cases this far away are almost never over quickly and he'd made a silent promise to himself not to shoot up on the job. And besides, he thought he was doing a decent job of hiding the symptoms. Maybe if he was working with anyone other than behavioural specialists he might have gotten away with it.

He knows the urge to shoot up is setting in hard and fast, the time between highs getting noticeably shorter. He knows when the craving sets in like this hiding the physical symptoms gets much harder, but most times he’s this bad he’s thankfully confined to the four dim walls of his apartment. He fidgets more than usual, keeps touching his face, he’s irrationally angry at his surroundings. If he were in a clear state of mind he’d try and keep this under control better but truthfully all he cares about it getting this over with so they can go home. He’s blunt to the point of rudeness, cold to the point of uncaring. Whatever concerns he’d had about being overly empathetic with the last case have been replaced with a steely efficiency.

Prentiss is the first person who outright challenges him on this. “What’s the matter with you?” she demands, but he’s half wondering if that even dignifies an answer. His caution towards Prentiss seems to have grown into full-blown hatred, exacerbated by the withdrawal-related irritation he feels towards practically everything.

“What do you mean, what’s the matter with me?” he snaps back, staring her dead in the eyes. It’s not so much that he doesn’t _like_ Prentiss, it’s just that he doesn’t _know_ her. She just turns up weeks after Elle leaves, and now she’s part of the family. And he can’t stop thinking about the circumstances under which Elle left. She couldn’t hide her PTSD and she killed a man because of it. Reid tries not to think about the same happening to him, because really, he’s on a knife edge with the team as it is.

“I’ve never seen you act like this,” Prentiss tells him, and that’s the spark towards the powder-keg of resentment inside Reid.

“Oh, really?” he retorts. “Oh, in the months that you know me, you've never seen me act this way? Hey, no offence, Emily, but you don't really know what you're talking about, do you?” And he wants to feel bad for this outburst, he really does, but he can’t. Because not only did Prentiss fill the Elle-shaped hole in all of their lives, she also came to represent a kind of stoicism and control over her emotions that he could never manage. She walks away coolly, and he's left forcing himself to unclench his fists.

The case ends badly. Although it was the more likely outcome of the situation, it’s still crushing. Reid’s grateful for the walls he’s put up around himself, preventing any emotional involvement, and can’t stop thinking about how he’s going to shoot up as soon as he can get home instead of remembering this. He wonders how he would have reacted all those years ago when he first started. Would he have cried? Scribbled it down in a letter to his mother, emotions poured out on paper? He can't seem to reach those emotions any more. It's as if they're trapped, hidden behind the scar tissue of memories Tobias Hankel left.

“Reid, a word?” Hotch asks, snapping Reid out of his thoughts. They’re packing up at the police station, ready to head home. A flurry of panicked thoughts rushes through his mind, but he forces himself to keep his expression as neutral as possible as they enter a side office. Hotch closes the door behind them, and Reid tries to gauge his expression. It’s nothing good, he can tell.

“Reid, I’m concerned about your conduct on this case.” Reid tries to interject, he can’t believe Prentiss has reported him and now he’s beyond angry at her. But Hotch shuts him down. “And I know you want to blame this on Emily, but she’s just doing her job and quite frankly you aren’t.” The anger surges up in him again, but he forces himself to remain calm, for the sake of his job if nothing else.

“My contributions to the profile-” But this does not look like it’s going to be a two-way conversation and the look Hotch gives him when he interjects strongly suggests that Reid should think very hard about whatever he says next.

“Your contributions have been excellent as always, but your behaviour has been worrying to say the least. I understand you’ve been through a lot in the last few months, and I strongly encourage you to take some personal time to sort it out.” He knows what Hotch is telling him here, but it sounds too much like what happened with Elle and Reid knows she came back all wrong and he can’t let the same thing happen to him.

“I’m fine, Hotch, really I am.” But they both know he’s lying through his teeth and Hotch’s composed demeanour dissolves in an instant.

“I know you’re using, Reid.” And in those five words, Reid feels his stomach lurch, fear paralysing his body. “We weren’t going to mention it because we thought you were getting help on your own terms. But it’s getting worse and it’s impairing what you do.”  

He knows that he couldn’t have hidden it from them forever, but how long have they known? He can’t look Hotch in the eye, forces his hands to stay still at his sides but the way they tremble these days isn’t something he can control.

“We can’t help you, Reid, unless you help yourself. And I can’t have someone with such a flagrant disregard for his own safety putting my team in danger.” There’s something maybe approaching sympathy in Hotch’s words but it's all too veiled with a steely fury. Every word twists in Reid’s stomach like a white hot blade. The ultimatum is clear: get clean or get out.

And a month ago the decision would have been easy and he would go cold turkey no matter what the cost. He doesn’t speak at all on the plane ride home, not even to apologise to Prentiss like he knows he really ought to. He can’t stop hearing Hotch’s warning in his mind, over and over, and he scrubs his hand over his face again. A month ago, when it all started, he should have told the team everything, and gotten the help he’d needed. He should have told Morgan at the very least, and some nights when the Dilaudid didn’t quite cut it, he almost did. A month ago, to save everything which he held dear, he would have quit using no matter what.

But now he’s not so sure.


	5. solder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> major spoilers for jones; minor spoilers for in heat

_"That's all I can do. I'll keep at it and hope that it gets better." - Ned Vizzini_  

Reid knows New Orleans is his last chance.  

He promises Hotch that working this case will give them the distraction he needs, and it doesn’t entirely feel like a lie. But it doesn’t quite feel like the truth either, and he neglects to mention the way crime scenes still give him that sickening lurch of unwanted memories.  There’s a lot he neglects to mention really; he doesn’t say anything about why he still only gives Prentiss monosyllabic answers, or why the bags under his eyes are darker than they’ve ever been, or that there’s a vial of Dilaudid sitting surreptitiously in the bottom of his satchel. 

It’s almost as if he can feel Hotch’s eyes boring into him on the plane, but he tries to distract himself by thinking about his old school friend Ethan. Behind all the arrogance and cocky confidence, Ethan was a good guy; genuine, in a way that Reid missed dealing so frequently with deceit. They were competitive, sure, but it's not like Reid didn't want him to succeed. Part of him always hoped Ethan would come back to the FBI, finish his training, everything as it should be.                               

In another world, Ethan would be the one in the BAU and Reid would be out there in the world doing— well, that’s the problem. He doesn’t _know_ what he’d do if he weren’t in the FBI. 

“Maybe he just couldn’t take the heat?” Prentiss jokes, as he muses aloud about his old friend, but Reid’s still beyond angry at her and shuts her down instantly. He wonders about what they’d say if he left and never came back. _Oh, I remember Reid, he was nice but the kid was a junkie. He was nice but couldn’t handle the stress of the job._ _He was nice but fucked up in the head._  

He refuses to give Prentiss the satisfaction. 

He can’t look her in the eye though. They're in a cold morgue, with the thick cloying smell of decay and disinfectant hanging in the air and there’s a corpse on the metal table between them with nobody coming to claim him. Reid is trying to ignore the way she looks at him like he's an unwanted puppy — he doesn't need anyone's pity, especially not _hers_. But he can tell it’s written all over his face; the idea that he could have been one of these corpses with no family to claim him, the idea that he still could be. The panic creeps up on him slowly, turning his veins to ice and pulling his chest tighter with each breath. This is nothing new to him, but this is neither the time nor the place to fall to pieces. He looks at the ceiling, trying to force himself to breathe deeply, trying not to draw attention to himself, and failing at both. 

"Reid?" He can hear her voice, but it's almost as if he's underwater, and he might as well be considering how hard it is to breathe. He knows the ins and outs of panic attacks all too well, from victims and objective observation, but also in the dead of night in his apartment when dark thoughts threaten to devour him whole, or in toilet cubicles at work when they all _know_ they're gonna be too late, and someone's kid won't ever be coming home again.  

He mumbles something half-coherent to Prentiss and the morgue technician about fresh air, and leaves the room in a hurry. Tears spring to his eyes as he gulps in the cool air, forcing himself to slowly exhale. He can hear Prentiss inside the building, excusing herself, and knows he has to go. They already know he's a junkie; they don't need to see this part of him too.

He decides to visit Ethan. Being around the crime scenes and casework for so long is making him itch to shoot up, and although he’s done a decent job of staying away from Dilaudid since his talk with Hotch, he knows when he needs to step away, consequences be damned. And besides, he knows they know, but Ethan doesn’t, and it’ll be nice to have a conversation with someone who doesn’t treat him like an invalid or an idiot.  

“You were battling your own demons. You didn't have time to analyse someone else's,” he tells Ethan, in a smoky downtown jazz bar. It's not really where Reid would choose to hang out, but it's a welcome change from the sterility of the morgue. Part of him wants to know about why Ethan left, but he can't stop thinking about his own problems, and how they might just cost him everything. And he can tell from Ethan’s expression that this isn’t just about how he couldn’t hack it at Quantico. 

“Do you ever regret it?” Reid asks, and if he thinks he’s holding his cards close to his chest he’s doing a lousy job of it. At least Ethan gives him an honest answer. It’s refreshing to hear someone tell him how the FBI is not the be-all and end-all because inside the BAU the job infiltrates every part of their life and don’t they know it. 

“My music makes me happy. It doesn’t take a profiler to see that you’re not.” And Reid knows he's been having trouble, but he’s not expecting the turn the conversation takes next. Ethan starts talking about dead jazz musicians and booze and heroin and Reid feels himself grow instinctively defensive. He crosses his arms and legs, hoping that Ethan will take the hint and back off. He came for life advice from an old friend, not a lecture on drug addiction. 

“You look like hell.” And doesn’t he know it? Reid is fully aware of how hard it’s been to get out of bed in the mornings, how every night he wakes up screaming, how his body’s grown thinner and paler and weaker by the day.  

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, fingers tracing the track marks on his arms without realising. He doesn’t want to entertain the notion that Ethan already knows too.  

“C’mon, man. I’m a jazz musician in New Orleans.” And for Reid it’s as if the floor has dropped out from under him. It takes everything he has to not spring to his feet and leave right away. “I know what it looks like when somebody’s not well.” 

Reid is grateful for the euphemism, but that’s about all he’s thankful for. He’s dropped three calls from Prentiss now, not entirely out of spite, and so he’s hanging on what Ethan’s got to say.  His last chance in the BAU has most likely been well and truly blown now, so he might as well make the most of it.  

“This may be the one time I can tell you something that you don't already know. That might help you forget, but it won't make it go away.” Reid knows he’s right, but god, he wishes that he wasn't. He wishes that there was something he could do to make the images in his head go away for good, so that every time he closed his eyes he didn’t see mutilated corpses and the tortured faces of those he couldn’t save. At least Dilaudid gave him some peace from the fractured pieces of his mind.  

“And if I can tell… You're surrounded by some of the best minds in the world, and if you think they don't notice…” Ethan holds his hand out, imitating the tremors that Reid knows all too well. “Well, for a genius, that's just dumb.” It’s like pouring salt into the wound, but Reid knows it’s the truth. But what does it matter anyway? There are four missed calls from Prentiss and a plane heading to Texas without him; he knows he’s out for the count. He figures he’ll work until this case is over, and Hotch will take his badge and gun when they reach Virginia. Hell, maybe he’ll even do it on the plane. He wonders what he’ll do now he’s no longer an FBI agent. He taps his fingers restlessly on the arms of the chair and tries not to think about the bottle of liquid in his satchel, the delicate syringe in its paper case. It would be so _easy_ to give in. He has nothing left to lose. 

But he can't seem to bring himself to do it. There's an UnSub out there thinking they’re the new Jack the Ripper and slaughtering men; what kind of person would he be if he didn't even _try_? He makes himself go back to work with a paper-thin apology and waits for the inevitable. 

After the case is wrapped up, Gideon finds him in the bar listening to Ethan’s music. “How’d you find me?” Reid asks, although he's not all that surprised. He wonders why they sent Gideon; probably since he’d be the kindest in telling Reid that he’s out of the FBI.

“You’re not all that hard to profile.” Reid swallows hard. He doesn’t like where this conversation is heading at all, and he really doesn’t want Gideon laying his sins bare, especially not here in public where everyone can see. But Gideon is patient and waits for Reid to fill the silence. It’s a classic interrogation technique, Reid knows that, but he gives in anyway.

“I missed that plane on purpose,” he admits, and he knows part of it is this petty dislike of Prentiss but so much of it goes much deeper than he ever wants to admit aloud. 

“I know,” Gideon tells him quietly, and of course Gideon knows, they all know that he just walked away from the job when they needed him. Would he have ever forgiven himself if someone else had died while he was off searching his damn soul? _Probably not,_ he thinks bitterly, staring at the scuff marks on the sticky floor. He wonders if Morgan and Hotch and Prentiss will forgive him, wonders if he’ll ever earn back their trust. A lump rises in his throat, unbidden.  

“I’m struggling,” he says, his voice trailing off to almost a whisper as he lifts his head to look Gideon in the eye.  And it’s not just the drugs, because they’re just a means to an end; this- this _fear_ has been eating away at him for a long time.  “This is all I was groomed for. I never even-” He swallows, trying but failing to keep the waver out of his voice. “I never even considered another option.” And he doesn’t know what he’ll do now he’s out of the BAU. Washed up by 25. He wonders if he’ll ever quit the Dilaudid now. 

“I have been playing at this job in one way or another for almost 30 years. I've felt lost.  I've felt great. I have felt scared, sick, and insane. I don't know. I guess the day this job stops gnawing at your soul and your hands stop feeling cold. Maybe that's the time to leave.” This is not what Reid was expecting at all. He was waiting for the other boot to drop, the message from Hotch that he needn’t bother getting the plane home at all.

Gideon’s like the father he never had, and he admires how he can just take things in his stride after all these years. He thinks about how numb the Dilaudid makes him feel, how divorced from reality.

“I guess I just needed to try to figure out if I could step away from this job,” he says, and he knows he probably could, but only if he spent the rest of his days as high as a kite, wondering what could have been. 

“And?” Gideon ventures gently. 

“I'll never miss another plane again.” 

That night, he pierces the tops of two bottles of Dilaudid and pours them down the sink. He hands the empty vials to Morgan, along with a pile of wrapped syringes and his phone. Morgan tries to hide his surprise at just how organised an addict Reid had been but fails miserably.  

“No matter how much I beg, or cry, or threaten, you gotta help me stay clean,” he says to Morgan, and he’s only half joking. Morgan smiles sadly, and takes the paraphernalia away. Reid’s forearm is still itching, and there’s still a tremble to his hands, but now he can see a light at the end of the tunnel. Penelope's in the living room with a plastic bag full of Chinese takeaway and a Star Trek boxset. Both of them swore up and down that they wouldn't leave Reid alone until they were convinced he was alright, and this time he's grateful. He knows Morgan still feels guilty for leaving him alone that first night after Hankel, and Reid knows that left to his own devices a relapse might still be on the cards. Penelope smiles as he sits down next to her, and he finds himself smiling back as she hands him a box. For the first time in what feels like years, it feels genuine.

In the morning he’ll phone Prentiss and apologise profusely for his behaviour during those last few months. He'll offer to take her out to coffee, and he'll tell her about all of the irrational reasons why he wouldn't let her in. They’ll swap anecdotes, and they’ll both laugh, having more in common than either of them would have thought. He knows she'll understand.  

He'll walk into Hotch's office and ask for that personal time off. Hotch will probably chew him out over his negligence on the New Orleans case, but Reid will see the gratefulness in his eyes, and he knows he'll probably get anything he asks for, so long as he gets clean. 

He’ll phone JJ and tell her everything. He’ll ask her how she copes with looking at those casefiles every day and deciding which family’s bereavement is worth more than another’s. She will lie, and tell him it gets easier, but he’ll be grateful for it. Somewhere down the line, he will find out that New Orleans case was the start of something a lot bigger than just the BAU for her.

He’ll write a letter to Gideon. He’ll fill it with thanks and fears and thoughts that he’d never expressed out loud to anyone, not even to himself, but will still record it forever in indelible ink. Reid owes him everything. He’ll never send it, but he writes it anyway.

The team means the world to him, and he knows they’ll always have his back. 

For the first night in years, he sleeps peacefully. 


End file.
